This past Sunday my grandpa died of complications of cancer and emphysema at the ripe old age of 84. It was kind of a miracle in itself that he lived to be that old, because he smoked from the time he was 16 up until he had to go into the hospital for a week when he had an aortic aneurysm about 15 years ago. He lived a full and good life on Earth. I wrote his obituary linked here. If you read the obituary, you'd know my dad's dad was just great. If not, just take my word for it. He was so involved in our everyday lives... by his choice. He always emphasized the importance of family and genuinely enjoyed my sisters and I as children as well as our own children. Every Tuesday for the past 6-8 months, we took food to my grandpa at his home. My grandma died a bit over two years ago, and he got pretty lonely at times. We so enjoyed those times with him, and our children got to really know and appreciate who he was. They will have such good memories of their fun times with him - just like I do.
During the last few months of his life, during his slow yet steady decline, he lost his ability to leave the house, prepare any food for himself, and eventually even showers, bathroom visits, and dressing himself were something he couldn't do anymore. During the decline of those weeks, we found ourselves doing more for him each time - making the tea that he used to make when we were coming over, getting his food from the dishes for him, and eventually even cutting his food for him. Our kiddos took great care in helping with those things.
Last Saturday morning, I got the news that he had had a very difficult night Friday and that he was unable to speak clearly anymore and that they thought he would need to be moved to the local hospice home. He was ready. After he was transported, I knew I needed to go be with him and the rest of our family. So I went to tell our oldest son Austin (age 19) that I was going to make the drive to hospice. He said, "I'm coming with you, mom." As much as Austin loved my grandpa, he loves taking care of his family members - especially me and his sisters and aunts. When we arrived, Grandpa looked poorly. His lips were blue, his breathing was heavily labored, his eyes wouldn't open, and he couldn't talk to us in anything more than the occasional disoriented mumble. It was hard to watch, but it got much harder.
My older daughters, Sadie (almost 15) and Claire (12) were at their dad's for the weekend, but when I texted to let them know my grandpa was that bad off, they told him they'd like to come home and be there for me and the rest of the family. I was so happy to have them come, and I was so grateful that their dad was willing to drop everything, miss the rest of their visit, and bring them 90 minutes out of the city to us.
Grandpa began to get more and more restless and agitated... despite his eyes being closed, he was obviously not comfortable, and he couldn't seem to get that way. He couldn't move himself in the bed. The only thing he could do was raise his arms above his head (we think, in order to help him breathe easier) and pull his covers on or push them off. As the day progressed, we began to have to help him hold his arms up, and we also used the sponges and a syringe of water to moisten his lips and mouth. My grandpa was always one of the most self-sufficient and independent people I've ever known. He always did for himself and for others. Tears flowed so freely as I watched my sister across the bed from me - both of us thinking the same things no doubt.
My husband was working 72 hour weeks at the time, and he stopped to see Grandpa and bring the other two children Levi (almost 9) and Violet (7) to us. About an hour later is when Sadie and Claire arrived. At first, I was worried about how they would feel seeing Grandpa in such poor condition. They approached the bed cautiously and qudietly...not really knowing what to think. Before I knew it, they joined peacefully into this amazing blessing we call "grief". There were 20 or so of us there - some arriving later. We took turns caring for him and one another. Everyone was quietly walking around, hugging, crying together, stroking one another's hair, snuggling in chairs together, getting each other food/drink, and giving quietly encouraging looks and words. Each one of my children touched my hair, arms, shoulders, etc. to give me supportive touch. My sister's 12 year old son went out to the nurse's station to thank them for taking such good care of "Wayne" and giving them hugs. My dad's cousin and his wife went to a local grocery store and brought us back snack/comfort food and offered to go pick up my sister and nephew at the airport so that we had one less thing about which to worry. My mom's sister's and her husband came out and prayed with us for him to have peace. My other grandparents (my mom's parents) came out and loved on him. My grandpas were best buddies, and the night before his move to hospice, my maternal grandma and grandpa had brought him his favorite meal. He had gotten sick for lack of oxygen a few minutes into his meal, and they had gotten him out of his chair and into his bedroom where they sat with him, my maternal grandpa stroking his hair and arm - even kissing him on the forehead a couple of times and telling him everything would be okay.
No one likes grief. It's dreaded and feared. It's hard work. I would compare the death process to the labor process. It's similar to the feeling of sitting with a woman during her labor. There's some pain, a cycle of labored breathing and restlessness that ebbs and flows, getting more intense as it progresses. It's difficult to watch as they are transitioning from life inside the world to life outside the world as we know it (life and all of the unknowns it contains). Very much like how watching a laboring mother bring a baby out of the only world it's ever known up to that point (inside her body) to the unknowns of life outside of that world.
Like most parents, I want to protect my kids from things I think will hurt, scare, or worry them. I try to prevent any of the discomforts known as "life". I have been to dozens of funerals since I had my first baby, and almost every time I left my kids with someone else during most or all of the process of the funeral. I even pulled away from them when grieving at home by doing it in the dark and quiet of my room at night. I did these things thinking that I was protecting them from the hurts of the reality of death. This is probably the first time I really let my kids in to participate in grief with me. The surprising thing is that they were the most amazing partners in grief. They compassionately loved on the grandpa. They respectfully and quietly observed and moved in to comfort others at the appropriate times, as were my sister's children. While there was a children's playroom at the hospice home, they rarely even went into it - but to decompress a little bit before coming back to be a part of that process some more.
I stayed there and watched until he took his final breaths the following morning at 1:47am. As I reflected on the day that had passed, I felt blessed to be a part of those moments of grieving with those who truly loved the same man I did and obviously still do. When I woke up late the next morning at home, my oldest son had gone into town to buy me blueberry donuts - just enough for me - as a love gift. The kids came up and snuggled in and asked how I was doing, and I did the same to them.
I got to wondering... "Why have I been working so hard to keep them shielded from this process?" They had actually made the process so much easier for all present that day. They had stepped up to the plate in some big ways and still are. Tonight the oldest three stood stoutly in that receiving line with the rest of us for the better part of 3 hours - greeting and comforting those who were also missing our grandpa. The other two children were in the line and in the room most of the time as well. This experience has given my kids a gift and a lesson in character that would take me many years to instill had we not had the the hands-on experience/lesson of the past several days. They learned that how to show vulnerability and that vulnerability doesn't equal weakness. They learned how to consider how their actions would affect others for better or worse during emotionally unpredictable situations. The maturity gap between parent and child closed in a little more. They learned practical ways to help people who are hurting. They learned that compassion is only achievable by forgetting and refusing to cater to self. I wish I had taken them more often to visitations and funerals. I wish I hadn't made excuses. I wish I had seen how much of a blessing they could be and how deep their emotions run and how strong they can be for the benefit others.
There are a lot of reasons that people avoid bringing their children to things like funerals... not the least of which are things like 1) not wanting them to be disruptive, 2) fear that the child will do something embarrassing, and 3) fear that confronting a child with the reality of mortality in such a tangible way will be distressing to him or her. I think there's a fourth reason too - we don't want to have to explain how and where and what happens after death, because we're not really all that sure ourselves. We owe it to both ourselves and our children to have a clear understanding of how to answer those tough questions in a way that provides genuine HOPE. If you don't know what you believe, it's time you did. There will most likely be a time when your child faces the reality of death without you there to guide him or her. In that moment, don't let the comfort of your words and the reason for the hope that you have of something better after this life be absent from their coping skills.
During the last few months of his life, during his slow yet steady decline, he lost his ability to leave the house, prepare any food for himself, and eventually even showers, bathroom visits, and dressing himself were something he couldn't do anymore. During the decline of those weeks, we found ourselves doing more for him each time - making the tea that he used to make when we were coming over, getting his food from the dishes for him, and eventually even cutting his food for him. Our kiddos took great care in helping with those things.
Last Saturday morning, I got the news that he had had a very difficult night Friday and that he was unable to speak clearly anymore and that they thought he would need to be moved to the local hospice home. He was ready. After he was transported, I knew I needed to go be with him and the rest of our family. So I went to tell our oldest son Austin (age 19) that I was going to make the drive to hospice. He said, "I'm coming with you, mom." As much as Austin loved my grandpa, he loves taking care of his family members - especially me and his sisters and aunts. When we arrived, Grandpa looked poorly. His lips were blue, his breathing was heavily labored, his eyes wouldn't open, and he couldn't talk to us in anything more than the occasional disoriented mumble. It was hard to watch, but it got much harder.
My older daughters, Sadie (almost 15) and Claire (12) were at their dad's for the weekend, but when I texted to let them know my grandpa was that bad off, they told him they'd like to come home and be there for me and the rest of the family. I was so happy to have them come, and I was so grateful that their dad was willing to drop everything, miss the rest of their visit, and bring them 90 minutes out of the city to us.
Grandpa began to get more and more restless and agitated... despite his eyes being closed, he was obviously not comfortable, and he couldn't seem to get that way. He couldn't move himself in the bed. The only thing he could do was raise his arms above his head (we think, in order to help him breathe easier) and pull his covers on or push them off. As the day progressed, we began to have to help him hold his arms up, and we also used the sponges and a syringe of water to moisten his lips and mouth. My grandpa was always one of the most self-sufficient and independent people I've ever known. He always did for himself and for others. Tears flowed so freely as I watched my sister across the bed from me - both of us thinking the same things no doubt.
My husband was working 72 hour weeks at the time, and he stopped to see Grandpa and bring the other two children Levi (almost 9) and Violet (7) to us. About an hour later is when Sadie and Claire arrived. At first, I was worried about how they would feel seeing Grandpa in such poor condition. They approached the bed cautiously and qudietly...not really knowing what to think. Before I knew it, they joined peacefully into this amazing blessing we call "grief". There were 20 or so of us there - some arriving later. We took turns caring for him and one another. Everyone was quietly walking around, hugging, crying together, stroking one another's hair, snuggling in chairs together, getting each other food/drink, and giving quietly encouraging looks and words. Each one of my children touched my hair, arms, shoulders, etc. to give me supportive touch. My sister's 12 year old son went out to the nurse's station to thank them for taking such good care of "Wayne" and giving them hugs. My dad's cousin and his wife went to a local grocery store and brought us back snack/comfort food and offered to go pick up my sister and nephew at the airport so that we had one less thing about which to worry. My mom's sister's and her husband came out and prayed with us for him to have peace. My other grandparents (my mom's parents) came out and loved on him. My grandpas were best buddies, and the night before his move to hospice, my maternal grandma and grandpa had brought him his favorite meal. He had gotten sick for lack of oxygen a few minutes into his meal, and they had gotten him out of his chair and into his bedroom where they sat with him, my maternal grandpa stroking his hair and arm - even kissing him on the forehead a couple of times and telling him everything would be okay.
No one likes grief. It's dreaded and feared. It's hard work. I would compare the death process to the labor process. It's similar to the feeling of sitting with a woman during her labor. There's some pain, a cycle of labored breathing and restlessness that ebbs and flows, getting more intense as it progresses. It's difficult to watch as they are transitioning from life inside the world to life outside the world as we know it (life and all of the unknowns it contains). Very much like how watching a laboring mother bring a baby out of the only world it's ever known up to that point (inside her body) to the unknowns of life outside of that world.
Like most parents, I want to protect my kids from things I think will hurt, scare, or worry them. I try to prevent any of the discomforts known as "life". I have been to dozens of funerals since I had my first baby, and almost every time I left my kids with someone else during most or all of the process of the funeral. I even pulled away from them when grieving at home by doing it in the dark and quiet of my room at night. I did these things thinking that I was protecting them from the hurts of the reality of death. This is probably the first time I really let my kids in to participate in grief with me. The surprising thing is that they were the most amazing partners in grief. They compassionately loved on the grandpa. They respectfully and quietly observed and moved in to comfort others at the appropriate times, as were my sister's children. While there was a children's playroom at the hospice home, they rarely even went into it - but to decompress a little bit before coming back to be a part of that process some more.
I stayed there and watched until he took his final breaths the following morning at 1:47am. As I reflected on the day that had passed, I felt blessed to be a part of those moments of grieving with those who truly loved the same man I did and obviously still do. When I woke up late the next morning at home, my oldest son had gone into town to buy me blueberry donuts - just enough for me - as a love gift. The kids came up and snuggled in and asked how I was doing, and I did the same to them.
I got to wondering... "Why have I been working so hard to keep them shielded from this process?" They had actually made the process so much easier for all present that day. They had stepped up to the plate in some big ways and still are. Tonight the oldest three stood stoutly in that receiving line with the rest of us for the better part of 3 hours - greeting and comforting those who were also missing our grandpa. The other two children were in the line and in the room most of the time as well. This experience has given my kids a gift and a lesson in character that would take me many years to instill had we not had the the hands-on experience/lesson of the past several days. They learned that how to show vulnerability and that vulnerability doesn't equal weakness. They learned how to consider how their actions would affect others for better or worse during emotionally unpredictable situations. The maturity gap between parent and child closed in a little more. They learned practical ways to help people who are hurting. They learned that compassion is only achievable by forgetting and refusing to cater to self. I wish I had taken them more often to visitations and funerals. I wish I hadn't made excuses. I wish I had seen how much of a blessing they could be and how deep their emotions run and how strong they can be for the benefit others.
There are a lot of reasons that people avoid bringing their children to things like funerals... not the least of which are things like 1) not wanting them to be disruptive, 2) fear that the child will do something embarrassing, and 3) fear that confronting a child with the reality of mortality in such a tangible way will be distressing to him or her. I think there's a fourth reason too - we don't want to have to explain how and where and what happens after death, because we're not really all that sure ourselves. We owe it to both ourselves and our children to have a clear understanding of how to answer those tough questions in a way that provides genuine HOPE. If you don't know what you believe, it's time you did. There will most likely be a time when your child faces the reality of death without you there to guide him or her. In that moment, don't let the comfort of your words and the reason for the hope that you have of something better after this life be absent from their coping skills.
It was okay for my children to be a little uncomfortable that day. I could have brought them ipads and snacks from home to help them disengage from the difficult reality of that Saturday. The idea did cross my mind, but I'm so glad that I didn't. This world has become a very easy place to avoid grief. In fact, more people than ever are choosing not to have a funeral for their loved ones. Many just jot down a condolence on a website rather than attend services. I'm as guilty or more than everyone else. We want drive-thru, tv dinner, instant comfort easy kind of grief. However, I am learning that grief, when done right and explored thoroughly, is one of the greatest gifts God gave us to draw us into deeper intimacy with Himself and with one another. Don't miss the opportunity to connect with others this way. Don't let your kids miss it either. They have a capacity for compassion that most of us jaded adults don't even have and provide a levity and relief only possible from a childlike heart.
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